


Slanted Light

by Sarah_Ellie



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Coda, Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-20 03:38:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Ellie/pseuds/Sarah_Ellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After M's death, Q is asked to join Bond in a month of rest leave to make sure that the agent doesn't drink himself to death. The Quartermaster stumbles through the complications of caring for a person as emotionally volatile as Bond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Burnt Out Ends

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Love Song of James Bond](https://archiveofourown.org/works/562404) by [Fightyourdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fightyourdragon/pseuds/Fightyourdragon). 



> Un Beta'd, so judge easy, fellow shippers!
> 
> Also, this idea was sparked by "The Love Song of James Bond." However, this fic takes a COMPLETELY different tone basically straight out of the gate, so be warned.

Q remembered the day that he had been assigned to 007 quite clearly. He had been summoned to M’s new office in the bunker, and was slid a file from across her stark, metallic desk. 

“As you know, most of our specialists in Q branch act as a personal liaison for specific agents under our employment.” M said. “You have not had an assignment because, until very recently, our fourth double-oh in service has been missing in action. “

“Commander James Bond.” Q replied. He had heard about the unfortunate circumstances surrounding Bond’s disappearance and probable death. 

“Indeed. Well, Bond has cropped back up. He’s a bit worse for wear and as insufferable as always but the fact of the matter is that he’s being assigned to you. It is your job to take care of the details of his assignments, arm him to the best of your ability, and generally ensure that he makes it through his missions in one piece.” 

“Yes, m’am.” Q said. He stood and made to leave, but was stopped when M called his name. 

“Q.” 

“Yes m’am?” 

“Take care of this one.” She said, and then beckoned him out of the room. 

Now that M was gone, Q understood his job more completely than before. His responsibilities didn’t stop at keeping Bond alive, or well-armed. They included making sure the double-oh was eating at least one meal a day and drinking something besides liquor. 

Of course, the only way to do that was to essentially become Bond’s caretaker. And so his first assignment from Mallory was just that- take Bond away for a month and bring him back as good as new. It was kind, maybe, but to Q it seemed callous. As if Bond were a machine who was being sent in for repairs so long as the warranty held out. 

That was how he ended up in the back seat of a car with Bond staring silently out of the tinted window. Q tried to keep up an amiable chat with the driver for a long while, but eventually the entire vehicle fell silent. When the driver pulled up to the train station, where the white and yellow Eurostar was waiting, Q found himself nervously clearing his throat. 

“Here’s your ticket, 007.” Q said, taking out the long piece of card stock and handing it to the agent. “We’ll get off in Lille up in the Nord-Pas-de-Calais and then take a cab to Hondschoote.” 

“MI6 is having me killed and dumped in Belgium, aren’t they?” Bond asked. He was probably kidding, but the deadened tone to his voice made it impossible for Q to tell. 

“Damn, you guessed it.” Q said, opening his door. Bond did the same, and they each pulled their minimal luggage out of the boot of the car. The driver gave them a quick nod and drove off- back to await his next destination via MI6.

They settled into their train car rather quickly. MI6 had arranged it so that Q and Bond would have a train cabin to themselves, which Q was thankful for until he realized that it would be over an hour of complete silence- part of which would be in the darkness of the English Channel. Bond didn’t seem inclined to do much besides stare out the window, so Q pulled a thin book out of the front pocket of his bag and tried to concentrate on reading. 

“What are you reading?” Bond asked ten minutes later. Q looked up from the page and was startled to see that 007 was staring at him intently. Had he been staring long? 

“The Reader by Bernhard Schlink.” Q said, holding up the cover. It was white with an open book with a dried bundle of flowers pressed into the center. “It’s quite good.” 

Bond nodded and turned back to the window. The train had begun to move, and soon they were speeding away. 

Once the train was surrounded by the darkness of the Chunnel, Bond spoke again. 

“So I suppose they’re forcing you to babysit me for the time being?” He asked. 

“Something like that.” Q replied. He knew it wasn’t much use to lie to Bond. “Mallory felt you should be given some recovery time, considering everything that has happened over the last year. You’ll be training and working on rehabilitation, of course, but you’re also heavily encouraged to relax.”

“And what will they do without their marvelous Q for a month?” Bond asked. Q tried not to be injured by the bite in Bond’s tone.

“They’ll have just as much access to me as they always have.” Q replied tersely. “I just get the added responsibility of making sure you haven’t died of alcohol poisoning.”

“Delightful.” Bond murmured. Q returned to his book. They didn’t speak again until they pulled up to the station in Lilles. 

It wasn’t a very long drive from Lilles to Hondschoote, one of the many cities in Nord Pas De Calais that had a quirky mix of French and Belgian culture. Q provided their new driver with the address to a two-story flat on the Rue de Liberation (a holdover from World War II, Q assumed) and settled in with his luggage in his lap and Bond sitting much more closely to him than he would have preferred. Apparently this particular driver did not frequently carry travelers. 

They pulled up to the outside of the flat just as the sun was beginning to set. From the look on Bond’s face, Q could tell that the agent was thoroughly unimpressed by the new digs. The building was one of a row of connected buildings that spanned the length of the street. It had an ancient brick façade and dark green shutters on the windows. There were two front doors, but Q knew that one of them had been sealed shut by MI6. The building, which had at one time been two separate living spaces, had been converted for MI6’s purposes. 

Q pulled a key out of the pocket of his coat and slid it into the lock. It was shinier than the fixture that held it in place- clearly new. Bond said nothing, only looked up and down the street dubiously until Q got the door open and stepped inside. 

The entryway was wholly ordinary. A staircase on Q’s immediate left wound its way upstairs, while the well-worn wooden floors on the main floor were covered in runners that disappeared underneath doorways that were closed. 

“Downstairs first?” Q asked, opening a wooden door directly on his right. Bond nodded and put down his luggage next to Q’s and followed him. 

The first room as very plain- only a few beige sofas and a fireplace against one wall. The windows that looked out to the street in front of the house were covered with plain shades. A door in the wall opposite the windows, however, was brand new. Q slid a small framed photograph of Big Ben aside and pressed his thumb into the keypad, which allowed the door to unlock and swing through on its hinges slightly. 

“It matches my prints and yours.” Q explained, pushing the door open wider. 

On the other side of the doorway was a fully-equipped fitness center. Q pointed out different things to Bond, from the free weights to the trapdoor that led to an underground sound-proof shooting range. There was also a bathroom covered in glaring white tile and plain but very functional-looking appliances. 

From the fitness room Q thumbed a sequence of numbers into a keypad, which opened yet another door. This one led to a sleek room dominated mostly by a large table in the center of it, surrounded by wall-mounted screens on three sides. A number of laptops sat open on the table, and a large tower sat in a far corner. 

“I take it this is your office?” Bond asked, recognizing Q’s preferred setup from Q Branch. 

“It is indeed.” Q said. He was itching to check the tech- make sure that it had been arranged properly- but he had to stop himself. 

Get Bond settled in first. He told himself, waving the wary looking agent back out of the room and towards the entry way. They climbed the stairs, which looked like they would creak but did not, and found themselves in a pleasantly cozy living room, complete with a gas fireplace, a bookshelf filled with books, and plush couches. There was even a television mounted on one wall with a DVD and video game system tucked underneath. 

A hallway connected the living room to the rest of the apartment, which included a bathroom with a frosted glass shower and a small but modern kitchen. The dining room- which was more or less a small wooden table with a few chairs set around it- technically sat in the hallway, which opened widely enough to be a room of its own. 

“That bedroom’s yours.” Q said, pointing to the door next to the bathroom. Bond had been given the room with the ensuite bathroom, largely because Q had a much smaller need for creature comforts than the double-oh did. Both bedrooms were largely the same; queen-sized beds with nice linens (Bond’s were blue, Q’s were black) and doorways that led to a connected balcony. Bond’s room had a large television in it, because everyone at MI6 knew that the man had a hell of a time trying to sleep at night, and Q’s had a small corner desk for his personal laptop. 

“There’s a drug store down the street that stocks essentials.” Q told Bond as he looked around his room. “MI6 is handling grocery delivery, and besides that I can look up whatever else we might need. The car parked out front is ours, a stock of suits and things in your size are in the closet, and you’re basically free to do whatever you would like.” 

“Except leave.” Bond said. 

“Yes.” Q replied after a few moments. “Except leave.”

And with that he left the agent to his own devices so that he could unpack and figure out how the hell he would survive the next month locked away with the taciturn agent gone mad.


	2. Vacant Lots

Before Q could justify unpacking his bag- which was only filled with more cables and wires and a few items of clothing that he did not feel like having purchased for him by MI6, thank you very much- he needed to go downstairs and check the computers. 

Of course, whichever lackey that had been sent to put the system together had done it completely wrong, and Q found himself immersed in the task of setting up his office for a number of hours. The sky outside had gone dark and the automatic recess lighting that had been installed in the room had turned itself on. Once the system was up and running, Q was tempted to begin installing the necessary firewalls he would need as well as some of the general preferences that he always set up whenever he “moved in” to a new computer system. But he had more or less abandoned Bond and Q didn’t want to report to Mallory that he had essentially failed to hold the agent together in less than a day. 

When Q made his way up the staircase he was surprised to find Bond’s back facing him- the man was lying on the couch in front of the fireplace. What did not surprise him, however, was that he already had a tumbler of clear alcohol in his hand. 

_Check for alcohol first, Q._ The Quartermaster chastised himself internally. Of course, odds were good that MI6 had stocked a small liquor cabinet somewhere. But the odds were better that Bond had brought it of his own accord. Damnit. 

“Do you want some dinner?” Q asked. Bond hadn’t acknowledge his presence, which he supposed was something that he ought to get used to. When his question went unanswered, Q walked around the edge of the sofa. 

Bond was lying with his eyes open, staring at the flickering fire. He swirled the alcohol in his glass, but did not drink from it. He was completely tuned out. That was when Q noticed the wireless earbuds in Bond’s ear. When he glanced over at the television, he noticed that the earplug jack had been fitted with a small device, and that there was an ipod plugged into the system. 

_Life and Death_ the ipod screen announced to Q when he ran his thumb over it. _Paul Cardall_. 

“Well that’s far more contemporary than I would have expected.” Q mumbled under his breath. In an effort to not startle Bond, Q turned down the volume on the stereo slowly until he looked up on the couch and noticed Q. He removed an earbud.

“Would you like some dinner?” Q repeated, using the sort of voice that one would use to keep from startling a small child.   
Bond only shrugged and replaced his earbud. With a sigh, Q returned the volume on the speaker to where it had been and wandered into the kitchen to see what MI6 had purchased for them. 

Apparently, their fellow employees were under the mistaken impression that Q knew how to cook, because there was a woeful lack of dishes that could be cooked instantaneously and instead were only a plethora of ingredients that hinted at the distant capability of eventually becoming a meal. Q stood in front of the open cabinets for a long time, trying to figure out what on Earth he could try to cook. 

“Is that genius brain of yours going to find something to throw together through the power of telekinesis?” Bond asked, startling Q. He hadn’t heard him walk into the room. 

_Snarky bastard_. Q thought, whipping around. Bond was leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, sipping his drink and looking thoroughly disheveled. Q had never seen the agent looking this way before- his shirt was un-tucked, his tie crooked, and just pants had wrinkles crumpled into the shins of his trousers. The sight of him made the icy retort die in Q’s throat.

“I’ve never been much of a cook.” Q admitted, turning back towards the cabinets. “Not much occasion, when you’re eating for one.”

“Don’t I know it.” Bond agreed, taking a long pull from his glass as he padded into the room. He was barefoot, something that struck Q as odd. He watched as Bond began to shuffle through the cabinets, pulling down seemingly random containers. There was a line of defeat sunken into Bond’s shoulders as he placed the small gathering of jars aside that Q found quite sad. 

“Are there mushrooms?” Bond asked, turning towards Q. He could tell by the unnerved look in Bond’s eye that Q’s look of pity had been noticed. Embarrassed, Q pulled open the refrigerator and looked inside. 

“We have mushrooms.” Q said, taking out the container and holding it up. 

“Garlic?” Bond asked. 

“That too.” 

“Give them here.” Bond said, and he took the proffered produce from Q’s hands. 

After that Q mostly followed Bond’s orders of “chop these,” “slice this,” “boil these for seven minutes- don’t forget to stir.” By the end, they had created what looked suspiciously like pasta and marinara. Bond waved Q out of the way and dumped everything into a large glass bowl and added cheese and wooden tongs. He used oven mitts to carry the bowl out into the dining room. 

For a moment they both stared at the bowl blankly. Neither of them had spent much time sitting at a dining room table, and they had spent much less time eating with company. Q could tell that Bond was about to slink off into his room, so Q quickly offered to set the table. Somehow, letting Bond seclude himself didn’t seem like a very good idea. 

Dinner was about as conversational as the earlier train and car rides had been. Q complimented Bond’s cooking, which wasn’t actually too terrible, and asked him how he liked the flat. Bond shrugged noncommittally at everything that Q said, finished his meal, and carried his plate into the kitchen.

Q heard the dish clatter into the sink. He pushed what was left of his own dinner around on his plate, and then took another bite. He had thought that after helping divert Silva to Skyfall, Bond might feel that Q was actually worth his salt. But it seemed that the death of M had shattered whatever progress he had made to redeem himself in Bond’s eyes and was now back at square one; a glorified travel agent who knew how to use the internet. He sighed, put away the leftovers, and began to clean up. After everything was washed and dried, he returned to his office downstairs and stayed up until the early hours of the morning securing the rest of the computer system. 

When Q got up the next morning, he couldn’t restrain himself anymore- he walked out onto the balcony in his pyjama bottoms and lit his first cigarette in two days. The nicotine steadied his shaking hands, and the rush of chemicals mixed with the morning air helped shake the edges of despair from Q’s mind. He smoked the entire cigarette, and then lit another. By the time the second one was finished, he almost felt prepared to go back into the flat and face whatever version of Bond he would find that morning. Almost. 

It must have been earlier than Q thought, though, because Bond didn’t seem to be awake yet. Q crept past the double-oh’s closed bedroom door and into the bathroom to relieve himself and start the shower, which quickly filled the room with steam. He showered quickly- eager to get a cup of tea in his system- and was had just opened the bathroom door with a towel wrapped around his waist when Bond emerged bleary-eyed from his room. 

“Well hello to you, too.” Bond yawned, looking Q up and down. Q rolled his eyes and brushed past him, closing his door so that he could get dressed in peace. 

For the next few days, Q and Bond settled into a begrudging rhythm. They got up around the same time every day and took turns to shower, made their breakfasts separately, and then went about their separate routines. For Q, that meant going down to the office to work on different projects for MI6. For Bond, it seemed mostly to mean working out for a few hours followed by drinking. Hen Q emerged for lunch, he would pointedly offer Bond a glass of water while he made sandwiches or some other simple, carb-related meal and then served them both. They ate together in silence and then returned to their own pursuits; Q in his office and Bond elsewhere in the apartment, typically drinking while staring off into nothingness. They would gather again at dinner, and then separate once again. Sometimes Q smoked, and Bond always drank, and they left each other to their own devices. 

Lather, rinse, repeat. 

By the end of the first week, Q was ordered to call Mallory to report any progress on Bond’s “recovery.” Tanner loomed in the background, taking notes. 

“How is he?” Mallory asked by way of introduction. 

“Alive.” Q said, pushing his glasses up on his nose. 

“Yes well let’s try dreaming big here, shall we?” Mallory said. “Have you talked to him at all?”

“He doesn’t seem to want to talk.” Q said a bit lamely.

“Of course he doesn’t, Q. If he wanted to talk we would have been able to treat him in the MI6 facility.” Mallory sighed. “As it was, he wasn’t mentally stable enough for the Skyfall mission, and now with everything else…” He trailed off. “You have to get him to talk, Q. Or at least be a bit more active than ‘alive.’” 

By the end of the call, Q was disheartened and ashamed. Of course he needed to do more. But exactly what he was supposed to do, he didn’t know. Spending the entire day holed up in his office wouldn’t do it, that was for certain, and only appearing at mealtimes wouldn’t do very much good either. 

He turned to his computers and entered a few final strings of code before shutting them down. It was Friday afternoon, and while he hadn’t really enjoyed a single weekend since joining MI6, he supposed that he would have to start. But how?

_By being around, you arse_. He chided himself. 

So Q went upstairs and pulled the book from his bedside table. He hadn’t made much progress in the last few days, but he supposed that that would change soon enough. Bond was lying on the couch in the living room, facing the fire once again. 

Without a word, Q sat in the armchair at the left hand side of the sofa, by Bond’s feet. His presence seemed to startle the agent a little, but neither man said anything at first. Twenty minutes after sitting down, Bond pulled one ever-present earbud out of his ear.

“Do you like classical music?” He asked.

Q looked up from his book. “Yes.” He replied. Bond nodded and flicked a switch on the side of one earbud. Music filled the room. It was the same song, Life and Death, and Q suspected that Bond had been listening to it on repeat for days. When the song looped to confirm Q's suspicions, Bond glanced at Q tensely, but Q didn't say anything. Bond relaxed, and they continued their silence. 

A half hour later, Bond shifted his body so that his head was laying on the side of the couch closest to Q. At first, Q was thoroughly confused as to what Bond was getting at, but then he realized that Bond was reading the book over his shoulder. Silently, Q shifted down to the floor so that Bond could see better, and they spent the afternoon that way- sharing music and literature, so that they wouldn’t have to share the hundreds of thoughts that were reeling through their respective minds.


	3. Broken Blinds

Over the first weekend, Bond got outrageously drunk, and Q didn’t know what to do. 

It was his own fault, obviously. Bond kept disappearing and his tumbler kept filling and it had taken too long for Q to notice that Bond’s glass hadn’t been empty all evening, which meant that he was refilling it. Constantly. 

The first alarm to his flat mate’s desperate levels of inebriation was when Q heard Bond tinkering with something in his bedroom, and then heard a crash that rattled the house. Q had been sitting at the dining room table, sketching absently in a notebook, when he heard the bellowing sound. 

“Bond?” Q got up and knocked on the bedroom door. “Bond are you alright?” 

“Le-alone!” Bond slurred from the other side of the door. Q tried the knob, and it turned, but it wouldn’t open. Something heavy was blocking it from the other side. 

Panicked, Q went through the bathroom and used the en-suite door to get into Bond’s room. When he walked inside, he saw Bond sitting on the floor with his back against his bed, one hand bleeding profusely, and his dresser thrown up against one wall, on its side. That had been what kept Q from entering. 

“Bloody hell, Bond. What happened?” Q asked, crouching next to him. 

“Broke m-glass.” Bond murmured, raising his hand to gesture to the injury. Q saw a flash of blood-coated glass sunk deep into the palm of Bond’s hand, and quickly realized that the knees of his trousers were being soaked through with what was probably scotch. 

It wasn’t the whole story. People- even incredibly drunk people- did not upend their dressers over spilled scotch. But Q was in no place to press. Instead, he lifted Bond to his feet and shuffled with him into the bathroom, where he sat the agent down on the closed toilet seat and went about looking at the injury. 

Using a rag, Q removed the glass from Bond’s hand and pressed the injury gently to feel if there were any other remnants of glass in the wound. When he was confident that there wasn’t anything left, he cleaned the gash gently, the whole time under Bond’s drunken but intense gaze, and poured rubbing alcohol over it. Bond drew a tight breath as the clear liquid ran over his hand, but did not complain. 

“You need stitches.” Q said. “We should go to a hospital.”

“No.” Bond said, pulling his hand out of Q’s grasp and setting it on his knee. Q sighed. 

“Alright then, but if you bitch about scarring we’re going to have a serious problem.” Q said, reaching into the cupboard under the sink to pull out the first aid kit. Quickly, he began to stitch the wound on Bond’s hand closed. The double-oh did not react as the needle pierced his skin, only watched in fascination at Q finished, wrapped the wound in gauze, and declared him fit for service. 

“Fit for service, am I?” Bond asked quietly. Q could hear the edges of sobriety starting to creep into Bond’s voice, which relieved him. 

“Well, perhaps not quite. But you’ll get there.” Q said, staring down at the floor. “Right, bed for you now, I think.” 

But Q wasn’t comfortable putting Bond back into the bedroom with an overturned dresser, broken glass, and an unknown cause of anguish. So instead, he led Bond- one arm draped over Q’s shoulder and his hand wrapped tight around Bond’s waist- to his own bedroom. 

“S’not mine.” Bond said when Q lowered him onto his mattress. “I’ll get caught.” 

“You won’t get caught.” Q said, puzzled. “You’re perfectly safe.” 

Bond grunted in reply and buried his face into Q’s pillow. Q reached down and undid Bond’s laces, pulling the shoes off to set them aside. After a few minutes of deliberation, Q reached down and unbuttoned the top two buttons of Bond’s shirt, and then unbuckled his leather belt. The appreciative groan that Bond let out when Q’s hands worked at the buckle wasn’t something that he particularly wanted to think about, so he pulled away quickly and tossed a blanket over Bond before retreating from the room. 

Q returned to Bond’s room and spent an hour or so putting everything back together- picking up the glass from the floor and using a towel to soak up the alcohol in the carpet. He was able to get the dresser back to its original location, but couldn’t do anything about the damage to the wall. 

Exhausted, Q collapsed onto Bond’s bed diagonally, shoes off but every other article of clothing intact, and fell asleep with his glasses still on and the sounds of Bond’s drunken snores coming through the wall. 

The next morning, Q stumbled out onto the balcony, rubbing his neck and feeling generally taciturn. 

“Here.” Bond came out onto the balcony a half hour later and handed Q a mug of tea. 

“Thanks.” Q said, taking the mug carefully with his free hand. The other was curled around a cigarette- smoke swirling gently into the morning air. 

They were each seated on opposite sides of a small glass-topped table, looking over at the rooftops of the other buildings. Bond sipped from his own mug quietly while Q finished his cigarette. Once Q had stubbed out the remnants, Bond set his mug down. 

“I’m out of scotch.” He said. Q looked up, and recognized that this was not a generic comment but a type of admittance.

“It was bound to run out soon enough.” Q said. His fingers itched to light another smoke, but he settled for another gulp from his mug. He swallowed and asked, “Do you want to run out to get more?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” Bond answered, turning his face away from Q. Stubble had grown onto the agent’s cheeks and his eyes looked tired, but Q had seen him in much worse condition. “Perhaps it would be best to let myself dry out a little.” 

Q nodded, but didn’t make any further comment. Despite how Mallory felt, Q knew that there were some things about Bond that really weren’t any of his business. His addictions were pretty high on that list. Q would keep an eye on Bond’s intake, but he wouldn’t stop him from doing anything. Well, almost anything. There was probably a line somewhere; Q just hadn’t found it yet.

In studying Bond, it occurred to Q how unsettlingly beautiful the double-oh’s eyes were. It was the sort of thing that Q would probably have noticed much sooner, if he hadn’t been so eager to prove himself. The afternoon at the National Gallery Q was too nervous to notice much of anything besides the look of consternation on Bond’s face, and since getting face time with Bond after the events in Scotland Q could really only think about not pissing the agent off and keeping him out of an alcohol-induced stupor. But here they were, sitting across from each other, and the man’s eyes were fucking gorgeous, and Q was openly staring. 

“Would you like a photograph?” Bond asked, snapping Q from his thoughts. 

“What? Shit, sorry- zoned out I guess.” Q said with an apologetic smile. He could feel heat creeping up the back of his neck and across his cheeks, but Bond didn’t seem to notice. 

“Are you plugging in today?” Bond asked. That’s what he called the days that Q disappeared into his office, now. “Plugging in.” Q supposed it was a reference of some kind that he didn’t understand.

“No, I think they can handle things for now.” Q said. “They’ll text me if there’s an issue.” 

Bond nodded and then rose, sliding open the door to his bedroom. Q heard him digging around in a few drawers- they opened less freely, now that they’d been upended and returned- and then the water started in the bathroom. Q got up himself and went inside. 

Over the last few days, Q realized that he had caught himself staring at Bond with increasing frequency. At first he just assumed it was because he was around the man so much more often, but he never remembered watching the hands of any of his friends with the intensity that he had watched Bond’s. Nor had he wondered about the texture of their hair, or whether they slept okay at night when he himself was lying awake. But with Bond, he had all of those thoughts and more. What was worse was that Bond typically seemed to catch Q in them, unless he wasn’t actually in Q’s physical presence. 

_You’re just making sure that he’s okay_. Q told himself time after time. _You’re just doing your job_. 

But when Q was returning from the kitchen with a second mug of tea just as Bond walked out in a towel, water still clinging to his chest and shoulders, he felt as if he had been punched in the gut. Lust coiled tight in his stomach, and he had to swallow it down, hard, as Bond walked past him to grab a bottle of water from the fridge before heading into his bedroom. 

_Damnit_. Q thought, watching Bond go. 

He felt the way that he had when he was dating his first boyfriend; excited, as if the frayed ends of his nerves were electrified, and simultaneously terrified. The terror, in this case, was more than warranted. Q was attracted to an incredibly broken man who could easily destroy him. Not to mention, Bond was essentially his charge. It was quite fucked up. 

You just need to get out. Q decided. This is the kind of shit that happens when you spend over a week locked up in a small flat with one other person. 

That evening Q told Bond over dinner that he was going out, and didn’t provide any excess information when he wandered off into the streets. 

Of course, the man that Q eventually seduced- five drinks in and quite late in the evening- thought that he was seducing Q. That was the beauty of the whole affair, really. The slightly taller, more muscular man thought that he was doing Q a favor, and it wasn’t until he was on his knees in the bathroom by the sinks with his mouth on Q’s cock that he thought any differently. 

It had been awhile since Q had dated- or even just picked up- anyone, but he played his nervous energy to his advantage where he could. For the first time since joining MI6, he decided to let go of his false confidence and let himself stumble a bit. It was nice, not having to overanalyze a situation, and by the time he came, quietly, eyes closed and head leaned back against the bathroom mirror. he was almost willing to forget that the whole Bond-issue had never come up. He just needed to get out. That’s all. And now he had, and things would be okay. 

That feeling lasted up until Q opened his eyes and saw Bond staring at Q from the doorway.  
The door was blessedly closed, and Bond was standing in the inside of the room, but that small relief was soon overshadowed by a much stronger humiliation. 

“Sorry.” Bond said, his eyes flicking between Q and the man slowly rising from the floor. He gave the other man a small nod and Q swore he saw a wink mixed in as well, and retreated from the room. 

“Someone you know?” The man- Geoffrey? Jacques? Why couldn’t Q remember?- asked, and Q stumbled over his apologies, that he had something to take care of, and of course he would call him to meet up later did he have a business card? 

Bond wasn’t in the bar when Q hurried out of the bathroom, and so Q decided that it would be best to just head back to the flat. He didn’t notice when he dropped the man’s phone number partway home. In fact, he never remembered receiving it at all.


	4. Questions

The streets were icy, with snow beginning to accumulate in the cracks in the gutters, when Q began to stumble his way back to the flat. When he reached the Rue de la Liberation, he was relieved to see a light on in the upstairs, glowing dimly. Q moved towards it. The tiny car that had been loaned to him and Bond by MI6 was sitting out front, but it had been moved slightly. When Q walked past, he could hear the engine ticking; settling in for the night. 

It took a few tries to get the front door unlocked, mostly because Q was too drunk to keep his hand steady. He cursed as he scratched into the new metal, and when it finally slotted into the door Q ended up stumbling over the threshold and into the entryway. He accidentally slammed the door too forcefully behind him, causing the windows to rattle. 

“Bond!” Q called as he slowly mounted the stairs. There was no answer. The flat was mostly dark, save for the single lamp that had been lit at the top of the stairs. Bond’s door was shut, and Q could hear the television humming softly on the other side.

_He’s disgusted by you._ Q thought to himself. _He’s just realized that he’s trapped in a tiny flat hours away from home with the sort of pervert who gets random head from guys at bars._

With nothing else to do, Q went into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face and brush his teeth. He accidentally dropped his toothbrush in the sink, and when he reached out to try and catch it, he knocked over the ceramic soap dish, shattering it across the tile floor. 

Bond opened the en-suite door a crack.

“All right, Q?” He asked from the darkness. 

“Fucking brilliant.” Q said, stumbling a little as he bent over to pick up the broken bits off the floor. Then he dropped them again. “Sorry Bond.” 

“Go to bed, Q.” Bond said, opening the door wider. His face was unreadable, and Q fumbled. 

“Bond-“

“Q, just go to bed.” Bond repeated. Q looked at him for a second and could not find the soft edges in the man’s face that he so often looked for in a lover.

Not that Bond was a lover. Of course he wasn’t. Q thought, his brain stumbling over itself in confusion. He turned away and shuffled off to his bedroom, tail tucked between his legs.

His hangover the next day kept him in bed until the early afternoon. Q could hear Bond puttering around the flat, but Q couldn’t drum up the willpower to go out and face him. Instead he laid face down in his pillows and tried to block out the memories of the night before. 

Around one, there was a soft knock on Q’s door. 

“Q?” Bond called. “You alive?”

“Just about.” Q moaned back. He heard his doorknob begin to turn, and was horrified to realize that he was still laying on top of his linens, his body covered only by his boxer briefs and a thin cotton t-shirt. 

“How’re you feeling?” Bond asked. Q could tell that he was at the end of the bed, so Q rolled over and sat up, trying to power through the throbbing headache that had settled in around his eyes. 

“I’m fine.” Q said. Bond nodded, and glanced around the room. Neither of them seemed to know exactly what to say. 

“Listen, Bond-“ Q began, embarrassment already creeping up his spine. “About last night…”

“I’m sorry.” Bond said suddenly, looking uncomfortable. “I didn’t mean to follow you. I was just worried.”

“You followed me?” Q asked, confused. Somehow, despite the entire fiasco in the bathroom of the bar, the realization that Bond wasn’t supposed to be there had never dawned on him. 

“You seemed upset when you left.” Bond said, running his hand tersely through his hair. It stuck up a bit where he pulled his hands away. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Suddenly it became clear to Q.

“The bathroom…” He began.

“You went in there with a guy, didn’t come out, I assumed that you had been attacked…” Bond trailed off at the end. 

“Just so you know that sort of… behavior, it’s not typical of me.” Q said, rubbing the heel of his hands into his eyes. He saw spots when he pulled them away. 

“Not really any of my business.” Bond said, his voice suddenly a bit distant. 

“Right.” Q said. He felt so utterly humiliated- not only had Bond walked in on him and a random stranger- and a man, no less- but seeing Bond standing at the end of his bed, even in his hung over haze, reminded him why he had gone out in the first place. 

Q wanted to roll over and go back to bed. He wished that he wasn’t in the hellish trifecta of having to A. “come out” to the person who he worked the closest with who B. was easily the most handsome and sex-obsessed (and quite straight) man in all of London that had C. found out about Q’s interest in men by bearing witness to his cock in someone’s mouth. 

Finally, Q took a deep breath. 

“Bond, if it’s going to be a problem, maybe I should call HQ…”

“If what’s going to be a problem?” Bond asked, legitimately confused. Q noticed that Bond’s eyes were ringed from lack of sleep, assumedly because of the stunt that Q had pulled when he had reappeared at the flat the night before. 

“I date men.” Q said, trying to be specific. 

“So I noticed. Q,, do you really think I give a shit?” Bond asked with the tiniest hint of a smile on his face. 

“I… uh…”

“Did you think my seduction techniques abroad were exclusively women, Q?” Bond asked, cutting through the awkwardness.

Q’s stomach gave a sudden flop. He rubbed his eyes again. He had heard of Bond’s many, many sexual escapades. No one had mentioned gender, though. It was all, “the blond in Macow,” “the blue-eyed one in Bucharest,” no gender. Christ, how did he miss that?

“Someone’s slow on the uptake this morning.” Bond said, folding his arms across his chest. The effect made him look passive, if not bored. However Q got the sense that Bond really felt very differently from how he was portraying himself. Q rolled his eyes, too exhausted for Bond’s endless bravado. 

“It’s too bloody early for this conversation.” He muttered, stumbling out of bed to brew a cup of tea, trying to convince himself that Bond hadn’t been staring at his ass as he left. 

The rest of the day went along as normal. Q worked on strings of code for MI6 while Bond worked out and practiced shooting in the underground range. They had a quick lunch together, where Bond uncomfortably adjusted his shoulder and Q pretended not to notice, and then went their separate ways once again. They reconvened for dinner. 

Luckily, Bond had turned out to be a semi-decent cook. While far from perfect, he at least knew when food was properly cooked all the way through, which was a far more advanced skill set than Q had. Mostly, Q chopped things while Bond applied heat, spices, and oil. Yet somehow, when they sat down to eat, Bond spoke as if they shared equal success in the meal’s preparation. That particular night, Bond had made chicken, and Q had boiled asparagus in garlic to go on the side. 

They sat down, and Q noticed again that Bond kept touching his left hand back to his right shoulder. 

“Still bothering you?” Q asked, taking a sip of water. He and Bond had both paused at the wine rack, which was stocked with cooking wines but were still perfectly palatable served in glasses, and then they had both taken all of the bottles and moved them to a closet in the hallway. They had had enough alcohol to last them awhile. 

“It’s just the old injury. It’ll take some getting used to.” Bond said. He tried to play it off nonchalantly, but Q could hear the despondence in his voice. 

“It sounds to me like you need a gun with less of a kick.” Q said thoughtfully. Bond shrugged and returned to his chicken.

“So the gentleman from the… bar, last night.” Bond said suddenly, looking up with a devilish smile that Q hadn’t seen in weeks, not since the video feeds from Bond’s encounters with Silva. “Will we be seeing him around more often?”

“Don’t count on it.” Q said, mortified. 

“Hmm. Shame. He was quite attractive, from what I could see of him.” Bond said, spearing a bit of asparagus onto the tines of his fork. “Pretty lips, particularly.”

Q stood and picked up his plate. He brought it into his bedroom and shut the door behind him, content to eat at the small desk in the corner where his blush could not be seen by certain asshole double-ohs. 

“I was just kidding Q!” Bond called, knocking on the door. 

“I would like to eat in peace, please and thank you!” Q called back, fuming. It was one thing to deal with the awkwardness but he would be damned if he would deal with teasing as well. 

“Oh come on, Q, it was just a bloody-“ The doorknob turned slightly, and then rattled. “You locked me out you bastard!” Bond said suddenly, his voice filled with indigence.

“Some agent you are; can’t even detect a locked door until you fail to bumble through it.” Q muttered to himself. He was relieved when Bond walked away from the door. 

The relief faded when Bond appeared on the balcony, and then opened the sliding glass door to Q’s room before he could reach over to lock it. 

“Good thing you’re not on a hit list, Q, or you’d be dead already.” Bond said with disdain as he slid the door closed behind him. 

“Typically people don’t have to worry about being harassed from their balconies when they’re on the second floor.” Q pointed out. 

“You’re mad at me?” Bond asked. 

“Clever boy.” Q said coldly. 

Bond sat on the edge of Q’s bed. Q spun around in his chair to face him. 

“ I’m a bit of an arse.” Bond said. 

“Bond, just leave me be.” Q was exasperated, and tired, and cranky. He hadn’t slept well in two days, thanks to Bond’s drama two nights beforehand and his own debacle. 

“Q-“ Bond shifted suddenly, uncomfortably. 

“What, Bond?” 

“Am I so repugnant to you that…” Bond trailed off. He cleared his throat and continued. “That you’d rather go out to…” he trailed off again. 

“You bloody lunatic. Is that what you think I was doing?” Q asked, shocked. 

“Why else would you-“ Bond began. 

“Because I fancy you, you arse!” Q said, exasperated. 

And there it was, out in the open , and irretrievable. Q held his breath, and waited for the kickback; that moment where the fired shot ultimately ended up punching him in the face instead. 

Bond moved from the bed to the floor, where he crouched on one knee and reached back behind Q’s head, right where the shoulder met his neck, and gently brought him forward. Q was shocked when he found Bond’s lips on his own, gentle and tentative, but strong all the same. Q let the kiss happen, feeling a bit as if he were coming unbalanced as he tasted Bond’s lips. Bond had a sultry flavor to him- smoked almonds and vanilla, Q thought. 

“You’re quite forward lately.” Q said when Bond broke away from him. Immediately he wanted to kick himself, but Bond just laughed. 

“Isn’t that sort of what I’m supposed to be doing here?” He aksed coyly. “Some sort of ‘keep the assassin human enough so that we can still appeal to him’ master plan?”

Q shook his head and shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not part of M’s master plan. Just a cog.” 

“And a bloody bright cog you are.” Bond smiled, and pushed himself higher off the ground to kiss Q again. 

Bond left not long after, leaving Q to finish his meal in peace (if it could be called that) while trying to figure out what had happened. 007 had kissed him,that much was certain. But why? He hadn’t reciprocated anything. 

Q thought about it for most of the evening, and eventually turned in early just to shut the thoughts off. Unfortunately, just before he went to sleep, he realized that M had foreseen some sort of emotional, psychological lapse in Bond, and that was why they’d been sent to France in the first place. What Q was dealing with was precisely the thing that MI6 had been dreading. 

It didn’t mean anything, he was just the one that Bond had to turn to for comfort, for affection. He was his Quartermaster, after all. In a way, wasn’t this just an exaggerated aspect of his job description? Of course, MI6 couldn’t have intended Q to make out with their best agent, but they wanted his there for his needs, and Q was nothing if not thorough. 

Of course, a part of Q recognized how disastrous this would all be for him once the month was over. Bond was dealing with grief and loss as best as he could, but Q was acting purely on desire. Once Bond was once again fit for service, he would lose him. 

He fell asleep, dreading the next day.


	5. Of Which Your Soul was Constituted

Despite his insomnia, Q woke up earlier than was typical the next morning. The sun was still nestled below the horizon and frost glistened from the edges of the balcony door. His trepidation still lingered from the night before, so he decided to go downstairs early to take his mind off of things. He hoped that once he could tap into the long strings of code that preoccupied his mind during the working day, all of the Bond-related issues would fade away, at least temporarily. 

Dressed in an old pair of jeans and a beat-up tee shirt that he had brought from London, Q padded downstairs in his bare feet and slowly brought all of his computers and screens to life. As the system booted, he turned on his electric kettle, and settled in for the morning. 

Three hours and two cups of tea later, Q heard the telltale sounds of Bond in the training room next to him. Q hated to admit it, but he had nearly memorized Bond’s fitness routine- intense cardio, weight lifting, jump rope, pull ups, push-ups, sit-ups, and then a perfunctory shower before the gunshots started beneath Q’s feet. It was nearly two hours, every morning. Q could practically set his clock to it; waiting until the last ten minutes of Bond’s shooting to go back upstairs and pick through the cabinets to decide what to make (or re-heat) for lunch. 

Q waited until Bond went downstairs, and then pulled up the MI6 report that he had been working on that detailed Bond’s recovery. It was a weekly form he was made to fill out the day before his conference with M and it was simple enough- he just had to tick the appropriate boxes and send it on its way. 

_Agent is engaged in personal development and maintenance…_ check.

_Agent displays interest in surroundings and self…_ check

_Agent’s level of dependence on external substances as determined by consumption…_ minimal. 

The form went on for two more pages, question after question that covered every aspect of Bond’s daily life from how long/rigorously he worked out to whether or not he showered and changed his clothes. Q supposed that the purpose was to detect warning signs for depression and things early, but he had to sigh heavily at the use of beaurocracy to determine the mental health of England’s deadliest weapon. 

Finally, he finished it up and sent it to Tanner before locking down the computer so that he could nip upstairs and throw lunch together. He was, if he was honest with himself, incredibly nervous about facing Bond again. So nervous, in fact, that he went onto the freezing balcony for a cigarette while he waited for the over to preheat. 

Bond was puttering around the kitchen when Q came inside, emptying food into dishes and warming things up. 

“Lunch is supposed to be my job.” Q said, waving Bond away. The simple act of being in the same room with the double-oh, of bearing the man’s scrutiny as he tried to commit to a handful of uncomplicated tasks, made his neck and ears flush with heat.   
_Because I fancy you, you arse._ That’s what he had said. His brilliant admission. 

“You were outside, I figured I’d get things started.” Bond shrugged. He watched Q carefully. It was evident that he was looking for something in Q’s movements- be that regret, nerves, anxiety, excitement… Q had no idea. 

“You were up quite late last night.” Bond said quietly, leaning against the wall. 

“Was I?” Q asked. He attempted to sound like he was indifferent.

“I could hear you tossing and turning most of the night.” Bond replied, his gaze steady. “You only move until you’re asleep.”  
So Bond was listening to Q through the wall. Excellent. 

Q gazed at Bond easily, and then lifted a shoulder into a half hearted shrug, as if Bond’s information meant nothing to him. “Did it occur to you that during all that time listening to me, you could have gotten some sleep yourself?” He challenged. 

Bond laughed a little, and then pushed off of the wall. He stopped when he was immediately in front of Q, who had turned away from the stove to talk to Bond. Gently, Bond ran a hand through Q’s swooping hair, and then trailed his fingers down Q’s neck to rest on his shoulder. 

“Are you nervous, Q?” Bond asked. 

“Nervous about what, Bond?” Q asked. _you haven’t reciprocate, Bond. What’s there to be nervous about?_ he thought. Bond smiled at him, and ran a hand through Q’s hair again. 

One of the timers went off loudly, startling Q. Bond reached past him and flicked it off. 

“I should head back down.” Q said as he dished the leftovers onto the plates that Bond set down onto the counter. “Loads to finish.” 

The look in Bond’s eye could have been hurt, but it flicked so quickly back to indifference that Q didn’t have a chance to be sure. Instead he just gave a curt nod. With a pang, Q realized that he was being stupid. Clearly, Bond was at least a little interested. That meant that until he was decidedly un-interested, perhaps the best thing for Q to do was to cut his own deflective bullshit and just go with things. 

“I don’t suppose you want to join me?” Q asked, pausing by the door. 

It would turn out that having Bond in his office while he was coding was the worst sort of distraction that he could have invited in. The man, while quite possibly clueless when it came to the incredibly complicated functions that Q was inputting into the systems, had an eye for detail, and caught on to things fairly quickly. This meant that for a long time, Bond sat close to Q, leaning into the screen that Q was focused on. When Q had to stand to input data somewhere else, Bond followed and watched with a hand resting on Q’s shoulder. By the third time that Q slammed into Bond’s chest while checking one of the many monitors in the room, knocking his glasses askew, he gave an audible sigh. 

“I’m in your way.” Bond said. He stepped back and ran his fingers through his hair, clearly not used to being the one that needed direction. 

“Less in the way, more of a distraction.” Q said, trying not to become distracted by the scent of Bond’s soap. 

“Sorry.” Bond said. Q didn’t miss the small smile that flashed briefly on his face. 

“You’re really not.” Q replied with a smirk. 

“I’ll meet you upstairs.” Bond said after a moment, glancing around. “How much longer do you think you’ll be down here?”

“Just another hour or two.” Q shrugged, glancing at the screens.

“Excellent.” Bond nodded, and retreated from the room. 

With Bond away, Q was able to zip through his work much more quickly. It had only been an hour and a half when he shut down the system for the night, stretching out his fingers and reaching into his pocket for the packet of cigarettes he always kept on hand. He lit the cigarette when he got into the entryway of their building, and stepped out front for a few moments to smoke it.

“Q?” Bond called down the stairs. 

“Just grabbing a smoke.” Q called back. “Be up in a few.”

He pulled at his cigarette slowly, letting it dangle from his lips while he rubbed his hands together to keep them warm. He hadn’t brought a coat out with him, and the chill nipped at his arms. He smoked the cigarette quickly, sucking in the nicotine instead of languidly enjoying the smoke like he usually did. Then, he went back inside, rubbing the feeling back into his arms as he went. 

Bond wasn’t in the sitting room or in the kitchen when Q got back upstairs. He assumed that Bond was watching television on his bed or something, and made himself a cup of tea to warm up. He was sipping cautiously when he opened the door to his own bedroom and found Bond inside, sitting on his bed, flipping through the book that Q had left on his bedside table. 

“Um. Hello.” Q said, stopping short. Bond looked up and a smile flicked across his face. 

“This book really is quite good.” Bond said, holding the book up for a moment before setting it aside. “I wanted to read the beginning.” 

“You can borrow it.” Q said, confused. 

“Hey Q?” Bond smirked, and leaned back a little into the palms of his hands so that he was essentially relaxing back onto Q’s bed while Q stood there, unmoving. 

Q swallowed. Loudly. “Yes, Bond?”

“I’m not here for the book.”

“Right. I kind of figured.” Q said. His pulse was quickening, and he took a few weighty steps forward. Bond sat up straighter as he approached, watching him closely. Q knew what Bond was seeing- his tells were painfully obvious thanks to his employment at MI6- twitching fingers, a few fluttering blinks, and a few nervous glances around the room. Bond stood after a moment and met Q partway across the room. Gently, he extricated the mug of tea from Q’s hands and set it aside. 

“Why are you so nervous?” Bond asked with a smile. The smile was gentle, and it was void of any hint of taunting. Q looked up at the slightly-taller man and returned the smile faintly.

“Oh, you know, workplace drama and the like.” Q shrugged. He desperately wanted to embody nonchalance, but it was a failed effort. 

“They don’t have to know.” Bond whispered into Q’s ear, and he wrapped an arm around Q’s waist and pulled him closer towards the bed. 

There was something infuriating about being coerced between his own sheets. Perhaps this was why Q found himself being a tad more assertive once he was on the mattress- Bond had steered him there expertly, and Q took hold of Bond’s belt loops and drug him forward so that the 00 was kneeling on the bed in front of him. 

Their first kiss had been gentle, but this time nothing was held back. Bond pressed himself onto Q hungrily, running his tongue along Q’s lips and sucking his lower lip into his mouth, biting it quickly before releasing it and moving his tongue into Q’s mouth. 

Q welcomed the onslaught, and flicked his tongue over Bond’s as he explored his mouth. After a few moments, Q took Bond by the shoulders and maneuvered him down onto his back on the mattress. Q straddled the agent, and ran his hands over his chest, feeling Bond’s muscles through his shirt. 

Bond gave a low noise of pleasure as Q’s hands ran low across his stomach and slid underneath the fabric of his shirt. The agent gasped lightly at the cold that still lingered in Q's fingers, but pressed into Q's touch all the same. Quickly, the shirt was pulled over Bond’s head and then abandoned on the floor. In a swift motion, Bond rolled Q from his lap onto his back, and began to undress his Quartermaster. 

For a moment, Q felt shy- he was exposed, utterly naked, on top of his sheets. Bond sat back on his heels, still in his trousers, and regarded Q. The hardened length of Q’s cock rested against his stomach, and his legs were slightly parted, Bond sitting between them. 

“I want to take you like this.” Bond said, crawling up Q’s body to kiss him again. Q shivered and pressed himself against Bond, grasping his hands around Bond’s bicep for leverage. 

“Okay.” Gasped Q, fucking his tongue into Bond’s mouth. “Okay.” 

A small tube of lubricant was produced from Bond’s pocket, along with a condom. The condom was put aside, and Bond slowly slicked his fingers as he kissed down Q’s chest. He left small bites on his way down- his teeth worried at Q’s left nipple, the crest just above his belly button, and the delicate triangle of skin just above his groin. 

Bond timed the final bite with the first swipe of contact that his fingers had with Q’s hole. Q shifted in surprise before settling down and opening his legs wider so that Bond could have easier access. As Bond slowly licked the length of Q’s cock, he pressed one finger slowly into Q up to the first knuckle. He pressed the circle of Q’s opening with his finger as Q adjusted to the intrusion, and once he had relaxed enough Bond slid the finger in the rest of the way, pushing past rings of muscle and feeling his Quartermaster clench tightly around him. 

Q keened and thrust a few inches off the bed as Bond slowly withdrew his finger and then pressed inwards again. He continued to finger Q with one hand while palming his own cock with the other. His cock was pressed tight against his jeans and the pressure was very nearly painful, but he was too concentrated on Q’s body splayed in front of him to do anything about it. He planted a kiss on the inside of Q’s knee and slid in a second finger, scissoring the two digits a little but mostly just working his Quartermaster open patiently. 

The insertion of a third finger drew a series of guttural moans and pants from Q, who was lowering himself onto Bond’s slicked fingers needily. He had to reach up and grasp at the headboard to ground himself for a moment, and his knuckles went white with the tightness of his grip. 

“Bond-“ He reached down to Bond, who was still sitting between his legs. 

“Yeah?” Bond smirked, pressing into Q deeply. The man bucked into the air and exhaled in a huff. 

“Come here.” 

Without removing his fingers from Q, Bond shifted carefully over Q’s leg and settled by Q’s side. Q pulled himself up enough to kiss Bond hard, and then began to work at the fly of Bond’s jeans with one hand. There was a wet spot high up near the waistband of Bond’s boxer-briefs, and Q thumbed at it. His touch elicited groans from Bond, who rut into the pressure of Q’s palm for a few minutes before pulling himself back. 

“If you keep that up…” Bond trailed off. 

“Then fuck me.” Q said, taking his hand off of Bond so that he could wrap a hand around Bond’s neck and pull him in for another kiss. 

“Someone’s bossy.” Bond smiled, mouth still close to Q’s. He withdrew his fingers and wiped them off on his jeans, and then picked up the condom packet. 

Once Bond had rolled the condom onto his cock, he positioned himself in-between Q’s legs. The Quartermaster looked down, and a flicker of apprehension crossed his face.

“Are you sure about this?” Bond asked, trying to hide any of his own emotion. 

“Shut up, Bond.” Q said. He used his legs to pull Bond forward, and Bond obliged by leaning down and pressing his tip flush against Q’s arse. Q wrapped his legs around Bond’s back, resting low by his waist, and carefully Bond began to press himself in.

The heat, the tightness, and the noises coming from Q’s mouth swirled together and Bond had to use every ounce of restraint in his arsenal to keep himself from thrusting all the way into Q, hard. Instead he went slowly, wary of hurting Q. When he was thrust in to the hilt, he paused, and let Q adjust. 

Q, however, began to squirm around Bond. He looked over and began to run his hand lazily up and down his cock, thumbing his slit before working his way back down to his base. 

“Bond, harder.” Q groaned. He shifted his legs further up Bond’s back, essentially exposing himself even more. 

It didn’t take very long for them to establish a rhythm. Q met Bond thrust for thrust, relishing the feeling of Bond’s cock inside of him and his fingers digging into the angle of his hips. Q pulled Bond down so that their chests were flushed up against each other, and tangled his fingers into Bond’s short hair, pulling at it. With his other hand, he ran over the scarred skin on Bond’s shoulders and back. 

The pressure of their stomachs against his cock brought Q to the edge of orgasm. Sensing this, Bond adjusted his angle, and began to slam into Q’s prostate. The moaning, mewling sounds that Q made, coupled with the clench of his arse around Bond and the grip of his fingers against the sheets, sent Bond over. A few seconds later, Q followed. 

They collapsed in a sweaty heap; limbs tangled and slick with exertion. Q watched as Bond’s breath settled in his chest, the man leaning lazily on his side with his head tucked onto the base of Q’s shoulder. Q reached up and carded his fingers through Bond’s hair. Bond smiled and trailed a series of kisses from Q’s shoulder, up his neck, and onto his lips. 

Q sighed, and closed his eyes. 

For the moment, things were perfect.


	6. Role Reversal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer to write than I thought, so I tried to make up for it by making it extra long! Please comment!

It took two hours to finish up the last of MI6’s latest securities disaster for an agent in Yemen. Q had long ago taken his watch off and glanced for the hundredth time at the silver and black face. He had mere minutes before his conference with Mallory. Apparently, sleep was not to be had. 

Instead of taking a few minutes to run back upstairs, Q ran into the bathroom adjacent to the training room and splashed water on his face and tried to comb his hair down into a somewhat less wild arrangement. It didn’t work, of course, and instead he managed to look both messy and greasy, instead of just the former. 

It would have to do. 

“How is he?” Mallory asked the moment their web chat was initiated. Q sat on his chair with the printed report in front of him, trying to keep himself from slouching and stifling a heavy yawn. M had quite clearly only just gotten into Headquarters, while Q had been up all night. 

“He’s engaging in the suggested exercise routine, eating the full round of meals, sleeping at least five hours a night-“

“Five hours isn’t very much.” M interrupted. Q held his tongue, and flipped open an early report that he had been basing most of his data on Bond off of. 

“His numbers before the mission in Turkey put him at three, so it’s technically an improvement.” Q said patiently. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was sore. The thought of Bond, lying out in his bed, made the back of his neck tingle with electricity. If he wasn’t so tired, he’d be tempted to go upstairs and try to kindle a repeat performance. 

“Has he discussed the events of Skyfall?” M asked. It was only then that Q noticed that the man was scribbling notes on their conversation.

“He has not, sir.” Q said, glancing at the watch he had propped up on his desk before the call had begun. He checked the sigh that bloomed in his chest, and picked up the mug of tea that he hadn’t gotten around to finishing.

“Very well.” Mallory said, taking note. “And now, I apologize for being indiscrete, but have you observed Bond bringing anyone home for the evenings? Or has he perhaps spent his nights elsewhere?”

Q choked on his tea, spilling droplets into his lap. 

“My apologies, sir. I didn’t catch that last part.” Q said, setting the mug down. He adjusted his stance in his seat and straightened the glasses on his nose.

“I know the question in very untoward, Q, but Bond’s sexual activities have been an accurate gauge of his recovery in the past.” M explained, flipping through a folder. “He forewent his monthly STI tests in the immediate aftermath of the deaths of Vesper Lynd and an acquaintance Theresa di Vicenzo, indicating periods of abstinence in connection with emotional trauma.”

“To my knowledge, Bond hasn’t taken up with anyone since we’ve been here.” Q said, the words scraping against his throat as he said them. He tried not to picture the image of Bond naked in his bed that had been burned at the forefront of his mind all morning. He wasn’t sure what M would say if he knew that he himself had been Bond’s only recent conquest. 

Conquest. Q mulled over the word. It was thick in his mind. Heavy. He was still certain that the word was the most accurate, besides maybe lover. The situation did not resonate any indication of permanence, and Q didn’t expect that it would, despite his own hopes to the contrary. 

“Yes, well, take note of any changes.” M said, recapturing Q’s attention.Q looked, and M was closing the folder and setting it aside. “I believe that that will be all, Q, unless you have anything to add yourself.”

Q declined, and was transferred to a secondary call with his assistant in Q branch. After a few minutes of housekeeping issues, the call was ended, and Q ran his hands through his hair and tried to shake off the exhaustion nagging at him. After he and Bond had… disengaged… the day before, Q had retreated to his office and remained there, trapped by the Yemeni situation and only popping out occasionally to go upstairs and check on Bond. At first, Q was afraid that Bond would think that he was avoiding him, but one of the last times he had gone up, he caught Bond glancing at him with a worried look just before the agent asked about the status of the double-oh in the midst of the crisis. Q assured Bond that MI6 was handling the situation but had to retreat back to his office before he could say much else. 

When he was finally able to stumble upstairs, the agent in Yemen officially rescued and on his way back to be debriefed and all ominous ties to MI6 destroyed, Q wanted nothing more than to crawl between his sheets and sleep forever. Or at least, through the rest of the day. 

“Q?” Bond found the Quartermaster sprawled across his bed, shoeless but otherwise dressed; the glasses askew where Q’s face was pressed into his pillow. 

“Yrumph?” Q muttered into the pillow. 

“Ah, nevermind.” Bond said, taking a step away from the door. “I’ll come back later.” 

Q would have liked nothing more than to figure out precisely what Bond had wanted, but before he could consider calling Bond back, he was asleep. 

At what time Bond came back, Q had no idea. Instead, he woke up to find himself curled around the double-oh’s body, which was lying in the bed next to him. Bond was wearing charcoal grey pants and a soft crew neck t-shirt, which had been hiked up by the push of Q’s hand on Bond’s abdomen. The warmth of Bond’s skin quickened Q’s pulse. He wanted nothing more than to run his hands over Bond; memorize every muscle and scar. Instead, Q curled closer to the agent, and fall back to sleep.

“Q, get up.” Bond was leaning close to Q. He could feel Bond’s breath mist over his neck. Q opened one eye and saw that tension had pulled lines across Bond’s forehead. There was an incessant, shrill ringing that filled the room. 

“Your mobile.” Bond held up the offending telephone, which was only supposed to ring in dire emergencies. 

Sure enough, the MI6 crest shone on the backlit screen, and Q fumbled to unlock the phone’s three-tiered passcode system to answer the call. 

“Q here.” He said into the phone. His voice was husky from sleep. He sat upright, listening intently with his hand raking through his hair. Bond moved away from the bed and stepped into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind him. Q listened to the rushed voices on the phone. After a moment, he jumped out of the bed. He tore past Bond wordlessly as he bounded down the stairs- taking them two at a time- and made his way through the various securities lying between him and his office.

He didn’t notice Bond follow him down, but he didn’t protest as the man perched on the edge of a table off to the side of the room, watching with arms folded over his chest. Q sat in his computer chair, sliding himself into place at the table that dominated the center of the room.

“I’ll need the timestamp of the last transmission.” Q said into the phone, bringing his computers to life and initiating a number of blurry CCTV feeds. They depicted a sky filled with smoke, pointing hands, and not much else. Q cursed the cheap bastards who hadn’t sprung for motorized cameras. He couldn’t move them to get a better angle. 

“22:35?” Q turned on a tablet and typed something else in, then turned it to face Bond. 

AGENT 009’s PLANE DOWNED FROM YMN. 

“Right. I’m trying to hack the flight correspondence systems now. I’ve initiated a secure line through Q branch. Thora will be waiting for you to get you set up. Yes. Yes. Yes Sir. Okay.” Q hung up the phone and immediately summoned a call over the computer screen. The voice that answered the call rang through the speakers hooked up in the corners of the room. 

“Q?” The voice was feminine, crisp, and no-nonsense. 

“Thora, M is on his way. Set him up in the central terminal. Have him wait to authorize medical evacuations until I can hook through the flight’s system history and isolate the threat.” Q said, speaking loudly so that his assistant could hear him over the sound of his own furious typing. He avoided meeting the steady gaze of Bond, who was frozen by the table.

“Yes, sir.” Thora said. “Anything else?” 

“Not yet. But stay close. Get Desmond and Gwen onto the secondary terminals. They’re the best we’ve got.” Q had muttered the latter bit mostly to himself, but he didn’t have enough of an interest in sparing the current feelings of his staff while he was orchestrating a hack. 

There were a few minutes of silence over the call, save for the occasional sounds of people rushing around Q Branch. During those few minutes, Q was able to connect to the flight system’s last fifteen minutes of data. It appeared normal. 

Too normal, to be frank. 

“Someone overrode the system.” Q swore. “How the fuck did they override my system?” 

He felt Bond’s hand on his back. He resisted the very, very deep temptation to sink back into the warmth of the touch. Instead he ran his hand through his hair and tried to shake his arms loose. Bond took a step back, but did not leave.

“If they overrode these gauges, then they had access to nearly everything.” Q muttered, mostly to himself. 

“Q?” M’s voice rang through the room. 

“Sir.” Q said, continuing his typing. “There was a system override. Someone hacked the retrieval vehicle’s gauge transmissions and sent false data back to headquarters.” 

“Why?” M asked. Q had the feeling that M didn’t entirely understand what he had said. But he was sure that “hacked” and “false data” would be enough for the man to catch the gist. 

“To hide something.” Q explained. “Only I can’t tell what just yet. My suspicion, though, is that whoever did this wanted the crash to look like a mechanical failure.” 

“And how do we know that it wasn’t?” Bond asked, leaning close to Q. 

“Bond?” M asked. “What are you doing down there?” 

“Relaxing.” Bond said tersely. Q shot him a look. 

“It wasn’t mechanical because of the way the plane crashed.” Q said, pulling up a CCTV feed from a security camera that actually had a glimpse of the plane as it went down. “By the looks of it, the entire plane fell out of the sky as if every instrument was seized at the same moment.” 

“Can we confirm that?” M asked. 

“Thora?” Q called out into the room. 

“Yes Sir?” Thora’s disembodied voice replied. 

“Access the final security feeds from inside the cabin of the plane.” Q said. “Do it privately, do not broadcast it, if you please.”

“Yes sir.” 

“What are the chances of survival?” Bond asked lowly, watching the smoldering wreckage from five different angles on one of the larger monitors on the wall. 

“Point zero zero three for the pilot, co pilot, and anyone in the cockpit.” Q said hollowly, staring hard at his screen as a series of numbers ticked by. “Three percent to five for the front of the plane, eleven percent for anyone in the back, provided they were wearing safety restraints.” 

“Can we send in medical?” M asked. 

“I can’t guarantee that it’s safe.” Q said, rubbing at his forehead for a moment. “Better to have Desmond remote-activate the vitals monitors for 009. Once he does a manual override, we should be able to establish a signal. How many other passengers were on the flight?”

“Seven.” Came the prompt reply. Sweat began to glisten on Q’s brow. He wished briefly that he was the praying type. 

“Including the Pilot and Co-Pilot?” Q asked. He stomach felt heavy as the question left his mouth. It seemed cold, calculating, to assume that two men that had been perfectly fine and living an hour ago were dead purely on statistics. 

“Yes.” M replied. 

“Sir?” Thora’s voice returned to the line. “The remote activation worked, but we’re getting a flatline for 009’s vitals.” 

“I’m authorizing medical.” M said immediately. “Q, launch an investigation. I want to know how they hacked through the system and how they crashed the bloody plane.” 

“Yes, sir.” Q said. He was relieved that at the very least, his voice didn’t waver.

The line disconnected. Q lowered his head to his desk for a moment and took a very long, deep breath, and then sat upright to continue working. His fingers shook, and he had to delete lines of code and re-enter them as he began to check the components of the flight’s system, bit by bit. He could feel Bond watching him silently, still directly behind him, and Q was thoroughly ashamed. A step had been missed, something had gone undetected, and if it was technological then it was Q’s fault. And here was Bond, able to bear witness to his failure. 

Hours later, the connection from MI6 went live once again. Q answered the call. 

“Q?” M again. 

“Sir?” He continued to type. 

“ Medical has just reported back.” M said. “There were no survivors.” 

Q’s fingers froze, and he felt as if he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. Bond, who had been flitting in and out of the room but returned when M had called, was at Q’s side in an instant. 

“It would appear that the vehicle’s dysfunction occurred so quickly that no one was correctly harnessed. The belief is that everyone died on impact.” M said. “I am transferring the investigation of the plane’s system to Thora for the time being, Q, so that we can access the progress directly at heaquarters.” 

“I can be back at MI6-“ Q began. 

“Q, I need to attend to the notification of the victim’s families. You’ll forgive me if I leave you to Tanner.” 

“No need, sir. I’ll transfer the data to Thora.”

“Good. If she runs into any problems you’ll be informed. But your primary duty remains as it was. Good evening.”

The line disconnected yet again, and Q pushed himself away from the desk. His bones felt disjointed, the angles in his elbows and knees wrong. Seven people were dead, seven people. From a technical failure. The disaster had Q Branch perfectly accountable. 

“Q?” Bond cleared his throat and Q jumped. He had nearly forgotten that Bond was there. 

“Yes?” Q answered. 

“Come on. We should go back upstairs.” 

“Just a second, Bond. I need to-“ But there was nothing that Q needed to do. Instead, he jabbed the POWER button on the system (a terrible technological faux pas) and allowed Bond to lead the way upstairs. 

Q laid on the rug in the sitting room, in the center of the floor, and stared up at the ceiling. Bond disappeared for a few moments to order take-away, and then sat down next to Q on the thick carpeting. Q sat up, and rubbed his hands together. 

“It’s my fault.” Q muttered, glancing at Bond. Q had hunched over himself, holding his knees close to his chest and his hands clasped around his legs. His knuckles were white. Bond reached over and smoothed out Q’s hands, rubbing them gently in-between his own. 

“It’s not your fault.” Bond said softly. 

“It’s my bloody department. Or it was. I’m sure Thora will do a magnificent job of running it from here on out.” Q said bitterly. “We should have caught it. There had to have been a sign. Something that I missed.”

“Q, stop.” Bond said, squeezing his Quartermaster’s hands slightly. Q looked over at Bond, and felt himself deflate. He felt useless. 

“I’m going to bed.” Q said, slowly rising to his feet. 

Some other time, Q would have extended a coy invitation for Bond to join him. But as it was, he merely wandered through the darkening apartment and disappeared into the hold of his bedroom. He changed into pyjama bottoms and crawled between the sheets, staring up at the darkness. 

There was a knock at the front door a half hour later, and Q could hear Bond’s brief exchange with the visitor before he returned upstairs. He heard Bond in the kitchen briefly, and then the agent was in his doorway- his shadow long and powerful in the dim room. After a few moments, Bond walked into the room and stripped down to his boxers. He got into the bed beside Q and ran his hands over Q’s shoulder for a little bit, and then moved closer. 

Bond opened his arms and Q regarded the man carefully. Finally, his resolve crumpled, and he moved into the agent’s hold.

“I’m supposed to be caring for you.” Q said quietly, his temple nestled against Bond’s shoulder. 

“You are. Just not for tonight.” Bond said. He ran his hand down Q’s spine, and Q sighed at the touch. “Tomorrow we can go back to normal.” 

They shared a chaste kiss, and laid together in silence. Q’s mind was crowded with thoughts of system overrides and failures and death, and when his mind finally pulled him into a reluctant sleep, he dreamt of fire and metal and fear. 

When Q woke up the next morning, he was still in Bond’s arms.


	7. Reprieve

The trauma of the Yemeni failure (as Q now referred to it in his head) had to be pushed aside in the face of his and Bond’s imminent return to MI6 in a few days time. Somehow, despite nearly a week and a half of almost normal (for Bond anyway) behavior, the agent was beginning to shut down again. Perhaps it was the packet of debriefing questionnaires that had been sent over from headquarters, or the one-month mark of M’s death looming so closely in the future. Regardless, Bond was taciturn and quiet, and barely acknowledged Q anymore. The only exception was late at night when, even though they retired to separate rooms, Bond would creep in and slide into Q’s bed. Q always made sure to move closer to Bond when he settled in; keen on showing that Bond was welcome. It never amounted to anything more than company, though, and Q tried to temper his disappointment. He wasn’t surprised, after all. He had effectively murdered a man in Bond’s department in addition to six others. Q felt lucky that Bond would even glance his way, let alone come in to spend the night in light of Q’s new night terrors.  
Bond even had the decency not to mention the nightmares that had plagued Q over the last few days. He merely woke Q up when he was getting to the worst of it, and laid a hand on Q’s arm to ground the Quartermaster enough to fall back into a fitful sleep. It happened nearly three times an evening, and as a result they were both groggy and exhausted in the mornings.  
This did not make things easier now that Q had to sift through the quagmire of Bond’s emotions. Those damned earbuds had made a reappearance, and oftentimes Q was loath to get through to Bond without a number of wild gesticulations and a fair bout of shouting.  
This was the situation that Q had found himself one evening after coming up from his office and finding Bond sitting in the small library, in the dark.  
“What?” Bond asked when Q finally resorted to flicking on a light to get Bond’s attention.  
“You’re being required to have a psychological check-in tomorrow morning. M’s orders.” Q said. He handed Bond a slip of paper with the details on it. “You’re to use my office, obviously.”  
“And what’ll you do?” Bond asked, eyebrow quirked.  
“We’ll I’m not going to sit and watch, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Q said, turning away. He flicked the light back off as he went, leaving Bond as he had found him. He then went to the kitchen for a cup of tea.  
Instead of waiting downstairs for Bond to finish his evaluation the next morning, Q set up the computer and then went back upstairs to sit on the balcony and chain smoke and drink a cup of tea. He told himself that the proximity of the lit end of his cigarette was keeping his fingers warm in the frigid air, although it was far from the truth.  
A loud slamming made Q slop a splash of lukewarm tea over his trousers. He was wiping at his crotch when Q realized that the slamming had been Bond’s bedroom door. This was verified seconds later when Bond stormed onto the balcony, apparently looking for Q.  
“I’ve been declared unfit for return to service.” Bond snarled, pacing the short length of the balcony like a wild cat in a cage. “We’re to remain here for another three bloody weeks.”  
“They told you that?” Q said, doubtful.  
“Not exactly.” Bond said, slowing slightly. “They e-mailed you the full report just after the interview. M must have been right bloody there, the prick.”  
“You read my e-mail?” Q stood, and he felt the cutting breeze against the spill in his lap. “Do you have no sense of priva-“  
The words died in Q’s mouth. Of course Bond didn’t have a sense of privacy, he was a double-oh. He was pissed, of course, that Bond had gone through his e-mails. But now was a time to choose his battles, and Q felt too close to comfort to Bond on the small balcony.  
“Nevermind.” Q said hastily. Confusion flickered in Bond’s eyes for a moment, but he resumed his pacing. “I’ll go and talk to M, maybe I can sort it out.”  
Q turned to head back into the house.  
“I wouldn’t-“ Bond stopped, and looked uncertain.  
“What?” Q asked.  
“Give M some time before you get in touch with him.” Bond said. “Uh… something came up in the interview. He’s a bit upset about it.”  
Blood began to rush through Q’s ears. It pooled in his cheeks and at his neck, and he felt like something very large and very stubborn was sitting atop his chest.  
“You told him.” Q said. “About that one time.”  
“Yes.”  
“Brilliant.” Q breathed. “Bloody brilliant.”  
“Sod-off. I didn’t have much of a choice.” Bond snapped. His fingers wouldn’t stay still against his thigh- he tapped them animatedly as he continued his pacing.  
Q walked through the door to his bedroom and slammed it shut, sending the lock home so that Bond couldn’t follow him. The agent stood at the door for a moment, and then had the good sense to move away.  
 _They know. They know that Bond fucked you. Your boss knows._ The words spun around and around in Q’s head, and his breath came in ragged jabs until he felt too dizzy to stand upright. _You’ve now added another bloody cock-up to your file. Brilliant._ He sat himself on the bed and laid his head in his hands for a few moments, until Bond began to knock on his bedroom door.  
“Just a minute.” Q called, hopeful that Bond would leave him alone. He was, of course, mistaken. Bond picked the lock on his door in seconds and let himself in. He perched on the bed next to Q.  
“I’m sorry.” He said. Q was surprised.  
“No worries.” Q shrugged, trying for cavalier. “It was a one-time thing. MI6 has looked the other way for worse, right?”  
“Right. One-time thing.” Bond said with a slow nod. Q’s heart sank a little, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.  
“Okay then. I’ll just change trousers and head down to read that e-mail. There may be something I can do to cut the time until your next evaluation.” Q said, standing. His voice was coming out in a pitch that was rather irregular.  
“Bollocks, but do what you’d like.” Bond said. He stood and left, closing the door behind him.  
It would turn out that three weeks was the minimum time extension that M was offering. Bond had failed the psychological survey so spectacularly that the recommendation was another two months, but Her Majesty’s Secret Service couldn’t go that long without their number one agent and their head of Q Branch.  
When Q called headquarters to speak to M, Tanner informed him that the head of MI6 was not available.  
“I need to speak to him.” Q insisted, worrying a hand at his eyebrow.  
“What is this concerning?” Tanner asked.  
“Agent 007.” Q replied.  
“I’m afraid I have been given the specific directive that the topic of James Bond not be addressed until tomorrow afternoon with the exception of an emergency.” Tanner said nervously.  
“Very well. Talk to you tomorrow.” Q snapped, disconnecting the call.  
 _You made the mess, so stew in it._ M was saying, Q was sure of it. He closed the call and tinkered with a few securities programs on the computer so that he would know the moment that M entered headquarters the next day. He then hacked into the psychological report and glanced through it briefly before putting up a pass-code matrix. He refused to risk anyone at Q Branch gaining access to the file before he had a chance to talk to M. Eventually Q shut everything down and climbed back upstairs, where Bond was sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace, staring out the window.  
“How’d it go?” Bond asked grumpily.  
“Get comfortable.” Was all Q said. He had turned to move into the kitchen when he noticed the glass in Bond’s hand.  
“I thought you were out of liquor.” Q gestured to the glass.  
“It took you a good half hour minutes to make that dead-end call.” Bond said pointedly. “I went down the street and re-stocked.”  
“Wonderful.” Q walked away, disconcerted in the realization that he has been showing Bond his back quite a bit that day.  
Q had been lying in bed for awhile, reading, when Bond appeared in his doorway. The glass in his hand had fresh ice in it, so Q assumed that this meant it was not Bond’s first.  
“You really like that book.” Bond said, taking a pull from his glass.  
“It’s something to do.” Q replied.  
“Do you think you’ll read it again?” Bond asked. “Or will it be a one-time thing?” Bond’s tongue curled around the words slowly, stressing each syllable.  
Q marked his page and put the book aside. “What’s this about, James?”  
“Nothing, Q. As you were.” Bond turned and walked away. Q heard the ice sloshing in the glass. He sighed, and counted to five, and then got off of the bed to follow Bond into the sitting room.  
“You want to have it out, James? I’ve been shut into this bloody apartment for too damn long to put up with your shit.” Q snapped, rounding the corner to the room and stopping just in front of Bond. “What’s got your nuts in such a bloody twist?”  
The tumbler in Bond’s hand landed on the floor with a heavy thud, tipped, and spilled scotch in an arc across the carpet. As Bond moved towards him, Q was prepared to take a punch to the face. He raised his forearms in front of him and was taken aback when Bond grabbed his arms and thrust them aside. He then realized that Bond was pressed up against him, the wall on his back, and Bond’s hands were moving. First they lingered in Q’s hair, his neck, and then they centered on his shoulders as Bond brought his mouth down onto Q’s, kissing him fiercely. Bond’s thigh weighed heavily against Q’s crotch.  
“James…” Q gasped, trying to find his bearings.  
“Did you want it to be just a one-time thing?” Bond asked, pulling away slightly to look at Q.  
“Not particularly.” Q said breathlessly.  
“Okay then.” Bond maneuvered Q away from the wall and into his own bedroom.  
Q’s brain was quite firm in the thought that he and Bond should stop, take a second, and talk about things rationally. Surely once cooler heads prevailed, they could put an end to the hurricane of mishandled information swirling around them. But Q’s brain was shut down forcefully by the feeling of Bond’s tongue in his mouth, his hands skirting the waist of his trousers, and the occasional press of his fingers on the hard line of Q’s cock.  
He knew that eventually, he and Bond would have to talk about the psych scores, the debriefing, and Skyfall. They would have to decide how to handle their ‘relationship’ now that MI6 was bound to be looking in on them, and they would need to see where the other stood. Q would probably have to answer inquiries about Yemen, and they would both have to somehow come to terms with the fact that they were sent away to deal with issues that had only been further pushed aside in favor of distraction and negligence.  
But for the moment, it was Q’s body that won out, and his brain was silenced in favor of more pleasurable pursuits.


	8. Simmer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-Beta'd. Per usual. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are hugely appreciated and honestly keep me excited about fics so that I write them more quickly.

When Q heard Bond open the door to his office the next morning, he tried to close the image on his computer, but Bond saw it. 

“Was that 009?” Bond asked, walking over. He was wearing a pair of trousers and a button-down shirt, and his shoes snapped against the floor. Q hadn’t gotten out of his pyjamas yet; he was still wearing the grey and black checked patterned pants and a soft black cotton t-shirt. His own feet were bare. 

“Ah… yes.” Q said. He ran his hands through his hair sheepishly. “I was looking up his next of kin.” 

“Why?” Bond asked. He pulled a wooden chair from the corner and sat down next to Q. “Moneypenny or one of the other personnel will handle that. It’s not your responsibility.” Bond reached out for a split second, and then seemingly changed his mind. 

“I don’t know.” Q admitted, rubbing his hand along the back of his neck. He pulled the program back up onto the screen and closed it out. 

“You know, the accident wasn’t your fault.” Bond said, watching the image of 009 reappear and then disappear yet again. “You read Tanner’s report. There wasn’t anything that could have been done.”

“I just can’t shake the feeling that there was something more I could have done.” Q said after a moment. He spoke lowly, as if it were a secret that he needed to keep from the walls around him. “Something I could have caught, or maybe I could have prevented it somehow.”

“It’s a bitch of a feeling, isn’t it?” Bond said, smiling sadly. “But this job… you’re always going to be burying people.” He said. His fingers were clenched in his lap. 

“Like M.” Q said. He looked at Bond evenly. Icy blue eyes returned his gaze, and then flicked away.

“Yes.” Bond said after a moment. “Like M.” 

“Do you think you could have saved her?” Q asked. In that moment, he didn’t care if it upset Bond, or that he didn’t want to know the answer. He just needed to know if he was the only one chasing after ghosts. 

“Yes.” Bond said. “I could have saved her. If I had gotten to her sooner, if I had killed Silva earlier, if I had been in the room when she had been shot.” He paused. “If I hadn’t used her as bait.”

“Too many bloody ifs.” Q said. 

“Maybe.” Bond said. “Have you checked in with Tanner or M today?” 

“Apparently, I’m still on mandatory radio silence. I suspect they’ll contact me when their feelings towards me have thawed.”   
“Sod them both.” Bond stood. “Come on. I’m tired of sitting in this damned house all day. Let’s go for a walk.” 

And so they did. They donned jeans and boots and thick sweaters underneath their jackets and Q brewed tea for him and coffee for Bond to put in travel mugs. He tucked a grey hat low over his ears. 

The city was eerily quiet, and freezing cold. The sidewalks on the streets weren’t shoveled yet, so Bond and Q trudged through the half-foot of snow in the streets, trusting that the sound of a coming vehicle would be warning enough if they needed to move. 

“Thanks.” Q said after about fifteen minutes of silence between the two of them. Bond glanced over questioningly. 

“For what?” He took a sip of coffee. The opening at the top of the mug blew steam into the air. 

“For telling me that Yemen wasn’t my fault.” Q said. After a moment, he added; “And for not blaming me for M.” 

“Why in the hell would I blame you for M?” Bond asked, startled. 

“Because Silva hacked my system.” Q said miserably. “He got out because of me.”

“That’s bollocks, Q. Silva was caught because he wanted to be caught, which means that he got out because he wanted to get out. There wasn’t much we could have done. Besides, that entire incident can just be dialed back over and over again, each time someone else takes the blame.”

“Then how can you believe that you could have stopped it?” Q asked, incredulous. They reached a small bridge that ran over a stream, and paused at the top of it to look down at the water sluggishly moving below the frozen surface. 

“Because I left MI6.” Bond said. “I was off the grid for the first three days of Silva’s reign over MI6. I should have been there, in London, when it happened. We could have gotten an immediate head start. Hell, if I had just gone back to Headquarters after Eve shot me, we would have found Patrice and gotten to Silva four months before he planned that gas leak.”

“That’s insane.” Q said quietly. 

“It’s guilt.” Bond sighed. He turned away from the water. “Generally, I operate without it; feeling guilty about the people you kill, the things you destroy, it keeps me from doing my job. Guilt tests loyalties.”

“I have no doubt where your loyalties lie.” Q said, beginning the walk over the bridge. Bond fell into step by his side. Their feet met the even ground of the street once again. “I could have killed you in that train tunnel. Eve nearly killed you in Turkey. MI6 has sent you into more dangerous situations than is conscionable. But you’re still here, doing what you think Her Majesty’s Secret Service wants for you. Once we’re back in London, you’ll go back out into the field without a second thought. Say what you want about guilt, but I don’t think it tests your loyalties as much as you’d think. If anything, guilt makes them stronger.”

“So you’re saying I should go ahead and feel guilty about M.” Bond said. A faint smile played at the corners of his lips, but Q wasn’t stupid enough to mistake the expression for happiness. It was rueful, a little sad, and hiding a much greater devastation.

“I’m saying that you can feel guilty if that’s what’s going to motivate you to do your damn job.” Q said. “But don’t turn your back on M’s memory by solely blaming yourself for Silva. M was the head f a very complex organization. That’s what made her powerful. Don’t oversimplify it by taking responsibility for nearly half a year of events.”

They made it back to the house by mid-afternoon, thoroughly frozen. Their mugs were empty, and neither had eaten much in the way of food that day, so Bond went into the kitchen to make some soup while Q went down to his office to check in to MI6.   
As soon as he logged on, he received a video call from Tanner.

“M is requesting a meeting.” Tanner said. 

“When?” Q asked. He still had his hat on his head, and he was desperately rubbing warmth back into his fingers. 

“Now.” 

“Very well.” Q sighed. He was fully aware that he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. 

A few seconds later, the call was transferred to M, who appeared stoic behind his desk. 

“Afternoon Q.” M said. “I felt we should speak regarding the evaluation of 007 from yesterday.”

“Yes, Sir.” Q said. 

“The Psychologist feels that Agent 007 has not properly processed the unfortunate passing of my predecessor. This, in addition to the destruction of his childhood home, makes 007 a risk. It’s been suggested that he remain inactive for a few more weeks. You will stay on with him.”

Q nodded, unable to believe that M was not going to mention Bond’s admission. 

“The paperwork was e-mailed to you yesterday. I assume you’ve looked it over?” M asked. 

“I have.” Q said. 

“Okay then. That just about sums it up.” M said. “Oh, and Q?” 

“Yes, Sir?” 

“Tread carefully these next few weeks. Don’t break what already needs fixing.” 

And with that, M logged off. 

_Well that certainly could have been worse._ Q thought to himself, unsure whether his fingers were still numb from the cold or from his conversation with M. He suspected that had the circumstances been different, like if Q was actually able to leave Bond’s presence or if Bond was okay to be sent on missions, MI6 would have handled everything without wearing the kid-gloves. But Q was relieved, even if it meant having to deal with more trouble later on. 

_Just let me get through these next few weeks with Bond, and then we’ll worry about the rest of it._ He told himself.

The thing was, Q’s relationship with Bond only got more complicated as the weeks progressed. They were sleeping permanently in Q’s room, without any show to the otherwise. Even on the rare nights that Bond went to bed first, he would curl up in Q’s bed and sleep until Q joined him, after which he would wake up enough to allow Q into his arms. And this was to say nothing of the sex, which they had frequently. Very frequently. And on many of the flat’s abundant surfaces. 

The good part of Q and Bond’s new closeness was that they were both far more open about their thoughts. Bond talked about M more often, referencing her death and her life in equal turns. On one occasion, Bond even told Q a story about his life at Skyfall Manor. Q slowly began to get over his role in the death of 009, although he promised himself to be more vigilant, to avoid fault in the future. 

Two weeks before they were scheduled to return to England, Bond had another psychiatric evaluation. Q waited in the training room this time, seated on the weight lifting bench while he listened to the murmured voices on the other side of his office door. It took a half hour for the voices to quiet, and Bond opened the door. He looked disconcerted. 

“Well?”Q asked, standing. 

“I’m not sure. They e-mailed the evaluation to you, they said, but you’ve changed your passwords.” 

“Imagine that.” Q said, brushing past Bond. He pulled up his e-mail and checked to make sure that Bond was a safe distance away before typing it each of his three passwords in turn. The evaluation was the first document in his inbox. 

Q took a deep breath and clicked the link, scrolling through the lengthy document until he reached the end, which he read aloud. 

“In my professional psychiatric opinion Agent 007 will be fit to return to duty on the previously scheduled date. Further evaluations will be scheduled for maintenance purposes.”

Bond, who had moved closer to Q as he read, nodded with a look of relief and left the room. Q sat, frozen to his seat. 

He had no idea what he had with Bond. And while they were trapped in the tiny house and isolated in France, he had been fine with that. But in a week, they were going back to London. He couldn’t very well expect Bond to return to his bed in his cramped, 5th floor walkup with his cat and a tangle of electronics. Bond would be sent out on assignment, where he would seduce other people, and Q would be there, in his ear, while everyone at MI6 knew what had transpired between them. 

What the hell had Q gotten himself into?


	9. Admissions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being lovely and supportive readers, everyone!
> 
> This final chapter is UnBeta'd as well.

_One hundred and seventy one hours._ Q thought to himself, glancing at the clock on his bedside table. His head was buried in the crook of Bond’s arm, his body flush against the agent’s, as the light of the moon slowly trickled across the sky. He sighed deeply and shifted a little. 

“Can’t sleep?” Bond murmured. He pressed his forehead against Q’s, nuzzling against him gently. 

“I’m going to go out for a smoke.” Q said, rolling away from Bond. He grabbed his pack of cigarettes from his desk and slipped outside onto the balcony. The cold immediately permeated through his pyjamas and bathrobe and made a mockery of his slippers. Defiantly, Q remained outside, fingers shaking as he sucked in nicotine and released streams of smoke into the still night air. He was startled when the door to the flat was slid aside, Bond appearing from the darkness. 

“Alright, Q?” Bond asked, leaning against the cold door frame. 

“I’m fine, just need a moment.” Q assured him. “Go back to bed.” 

“You’re going to be freeze out here.” Bond stepped out onto the balcony and shut the door behind him. “That bloody habit of yours is going to give you hypothermia.”

“Don’t be dramatic.” Q said, taking another drag. 

“Yes, we wouldn’t want that.” Bond said. He sank into the chair next to Q. “What’s wrong? Really?” 

“Nothing.” Q lied, tapping the end of his cigarette. 

“You know, it’s my job to figure out when someone is lying to me.” Bond said pointedly. Even in the darkness, his eyes shone brightly. 

Q finished off the last of his cigarette and stubbed it out on the floor of the balcony. 

“Lucky for us both that you have a week of leave left.” He said as he stood. “So you can hold off on doing your job for a bit longer.” Q walked back into the flat, followed closely by Bond. 

“I’m going to go make a cuppa.” He told Bond. “Want anything?”

“No, I’m fine.” Bond said, crawling back into bed. “Are you coming back in?”

“Yes, just give me a moment.” Q said as he left. 

But Q couldn’t bring himself to go to bed once he was staring into the depths of his Earl Grey, so he went down to his office instead. For a little while, he preoccupied himself with various pet projects and housekeeping issues (being the head of Q branch in another country was taking a serious toll on Q Division’s overall productivity, even with Thora’s zealous assistance). Soon enough, however, he fell into deep thought, and those thoughts immediately turned to Bond. 

_You love him._ Q startled himself with the realization. _You’ve gone and fallen in love with James Bond._

It felt as if something was churning in Q’s stomach; a storm of feelings and acid and heavy, heavy stones that wanted to weigh him down to the floor. 

“Q?” There was a knock on his office door. “What in the hell are you doing?” 

Q jumped, and nearly fell off of his chair. Quickly, he pulled himself together and pulled open the door, coming face-to-face with the very concerned Bond that stood on the other side. 

“Just wanted to take a look at some things.” Q said lamely. 

“A bit overeager, don’t you think?” Bond asked. “You should come to bed.” His arms were folded across his chest, and Q was momentarily distracted by the bands of muscles on his arms. 

“I’ll be right there, Bond.” Q said tiredly.

“You could just come now.” Bond insisted. After a beat he added- “I hate sleeping in your bed without you.”

“You have your own bloody bed, Bond!” Q “Crawl out of my arse!” 

Q knew the second that he had spoken that he had been overly cruel. Bond looked affronted, and emotions flickered across his face. 

“Sorry to be a bother.” He said quietly. Q felt his heart sink. “Goodnight, Q.” And then he turned and left. 

Q gave Bond a ten minute head start, during which he paced the training room, trying to calm his panicked heart. Finally, when he couldn’t justify remaining downstairs for another moment, he steeled himself and went up to the flat. 

His bedroom door stood open, and Q’s bed was empty. Bond’s own door was closed tight, and not a single sound came from the other side. Q crawled into bed, but wasn’t able to sleep. He tossed and turned, and was still awake when dawn began to blossom on the horizon. 

There was a soft knocking at his door. 

“Q?” Bond called gently. “Q- I know you’re awake.”

Q ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. 

“Come in.”

Bond opened the door and padded quietly over to Q’s bed. He sat down on the very edge, looking at Q warily. 

“You’re upset about something.” He said. His voice was filled with exhaustion, which made his tone sound low and gravelly. “And I wish you would tell me what it was.”

Q sat up, leaning his back against the headboard. The bed felt too large around him, as if he were a tiny raft amid a sea of linens. 

“It really doesn’t matter.” He shrugged as tried to avoid Bond’s gaze. “Trivial things.”

“ So trivial that you’ve stayed up all night mulling them over?” Bond asked. He shifted his knee so that it was further towards the center of the bed. 

“Bond, please.”

“James.” Bond corrected. “I’d prefer it if you called me James.”

“You want me to call you James?” Q asked slowly, his confusion growing. 

“Yes. At least, when we’re alone. I suppose M would be unhappy if we walked around MI6 on a first-name basis.” 

“Bond-“

“ _James._ ” Bond said insistently. 

“James, what will you do when you go back to London?” Q asked. 

“Continue to work, I presume.” Bond said, his brows furrowing. “Aren’t those your plans as well?”

Q sighed. “Yes.”

“You’re not saying something.” Bond said, his eyes studying Q’s face. He moved closer to Q, his legs folded beneath him. Q felt Bond’s body pulling him near, as if Bond was an anchor. 

“I- James… please.” Q closed his eyes for a moment. “I just have a lot on my mind, and I just want to get through these next few days and get back to London so that things will go back to the way that they’re supposed to be, okay?” 

Of course, that wasn’t what Q meant to say at all, and Bond looked stricken by the words. He straightened and withdrew from the bed.

“Very well.” Bond said, standing. Q moved forward. 

“Wait, James-“

“No, Q. It’s fine, I understand.” Bond said, turning towards the door.

“You really don’t… James, Please-“

“I’m sorry for disturb-“

“I love you.” Q blurted as he reached the end of his bed. He kneeled there, and watched Bond turn back to face him, his expression unreadable. 

“What?” Bond demanded. Q flinched at his tone.

“I… I’m sorry, James. But I… It’s unprofessional, and I didn’t mean… but it’s true…” Q rambled, and Bond seemed confused for a moment. “I’m in love with you.”

“You’re kidding.” Bond responded. Q felt as if every bit of breath had left his body. 

“I’m afraid I’m not.” Q said. And then he repeated himself for a third time. “I bloody love you.”

“Q-“ Bond turned and closed the gap between himself and Q. “You know I’m not exactly the picture of psychological perfection. There’s a reason that double-oh agents are typecast.” 

“I’m aware.” Q whispered as Bond’s hand brushed the side of his cheek. Bond’s other arm wrapped around Q’s back. 

“Q, I’m not there yet.” Bond whispered; his forehead against his Quartermaster’s. “I want to be, desperately. But I can’t love you yet.” 

It was hard for Q to swallow his disappointment. “That’s okay, James. I wasn’t expecting you to return the sentiments.”

“Don’t misunderstand me, Q.” Bond said. “I’m not there _yet_. I just need more time. I’ll get there, I promise. You would just have to wait.” 

“You can’t force yourself to fall in love with someone, James.” Q said. 

“No, you can’t. But I’ve spent these last few weeks trying to convince myself not to fall in love with you. I just need to trust enough to let that go. Give me a chance to do that, Q. Please.”

Q considered this, and weighed it against everything that he and Bond had been through over the last month and a half. It was so much, so soon, but it had barely been any time at all. 

“I can do that.” Q said quietly. 

“Are you sure, Q?” Bond asked. 

“I’m sure.” Q smiled. “And James? Don’t call me Q.”

“What should I call you, then?” Bond asked. He leaned forward to trace a line of kisses along Q’s jaw line, and Q turned to whisper his name into the agent’s ear. 

One hundred and sixty six hours later, Q and Bond both stepped off of the EuroStar and climbed into the chauffeured car that was waiting for them. 

“Whom shall I drop off first?” The driver asked as they settled into the back seat. 

“Take me to his place.” Bond said with a smile, leaning against Q. “I’m not ready to leave him quite yet.”


End file.
